The Insurance Executions
by nero749
Summary: Sequel to "After the Bombs."  Despite being seriously injured in his previous case, Sherlock can't resist getting involved in a new one. A case that will lead him to confront several enemies from his past.
1. Chapter 1

SH:The Insurance Executions I

by *Nero749

The hospital room had filled with the smell of flowers. Jack, her husband, was sitting on the end of the bed. Florence was sharing the room with three other people, so the only privacy she and Jack had were a curtain that had been pulled around her bed. Florence looked at her husband's face. He was very clearly bothered by the fact that every time he visited his wife in her hospital room, there were fresh flowers. And they were never send by him. Florence smiled to herself.

"The gift shop must have been out of roses today," a deep voice from behind the curtain said. Florence and Jack looked at each other, slightly shocked by the sudden interruption, as if the curtain had been a wall and had provided any real privacy, rather than simply the illusion of it.

Suddenly the curtain was pulled aside. "After all, the gift shop is the only place where someone in a hospital can buy flowers," the man said. Florence looked at the young man in bewilderment. He had dark curls and incredibly pale eyes. He was evidently a patient, because he was wearing the same thing Florence was, except she couldn't remember having seen him before. And… were that nicotine patches she could see on his arms?

"Er…" Jack tried to speak. Somehow he was convinced this man was trying to insult him, he simply couldn't see how just yet. Or maybe he was the one sending the flowers all the time, making Jack look bad and this was just one final humiliation this man had planned for him.

"I didn't buy them downstairs, if I had brought flowers I would've…"

"Of course you didn't," the man said slightly aggravated. "She did."

Jack didn't understand and in his confusion turned to Florence, she was wearing an expression of shock.

Jack turned to the man again. The man looked at Florence, then tilted his head. "You didn't think a fresh bunch of flowers every day would be seen as a bit suspicious, did you? Surely even your husband here would've eventually found out you were 'sending' them to yourself."

Jack looked at Florence who looked cornered and he realised the man was right. "You send all those flowers? But why would you…"

"That seems obvious," the man said, "before the flowers started arriving my sleep was hardly ever disturbed by visitors, since the flowers started you've woken me up almost every day. It's clear the flowers were well-fitted for their goal of getting you to visit your wife more often."

Florence, who had remained silent all this time was now starting to stumble out words at random, trying to look for something to justify what she'd done. Jack looked at the man, then at Florence again. This time he remained silent with an expression of shock on his face.

"No point in getting emotional about it. She simply drew a logical conclusion, but I thought I might save you some money. The gift shop is shamefully overprized."

Jack turned to look at the man again. He didn't understand the first thing about this situation. So he just stared at the man, as if awaiting further explanation. Only now did he notice the man wasn't putting any weight on his left leg, and the stitches on his left upper arm. "Who are you?" Jack finally managed to ask.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man said strangely upbeat. "Incidentally," the man added, "could I borrow some clothes?"

Crutches… hateful tried to concentrate on the sound the crutches made when the hit the tiles of the hallway - he was convinced it would proof to be essential to his work on day.

Leaning on one crutch he hailed a cab. "221b Baker Street," Sherlock said to the cabbie while trying to get in the cab. Struggling with the crutches in a slightly endearing way, Sherlock made his way into the cab just before the cabbie opened his door - presumably to get out and help Sherlock.

When they reached 221b Baker Street and the cab come to a stand still, the cabbie wasted no time getting out of the car and opening the car door to help Sherlock out. Reluctantly, but realising he needed the help, Sherlock let the cabbie help him out. He didn't say a word as the cabbie handed him his crutches and Sherlock paid him.

Turning to the front door now, Sherlock saw John leaning against the door post. "Got a call from the hospital, saying you were missing, so I thought I'd wait for you," he said slightly weary. "Besides, I thought you might need help getting up the stairs with those crutches." Sherlock grinned. Good old John Watson.

With one arm around John's shoulders and using the other trying to manoeuvre one of the crutches, Sherlock managed to make his way up the stairs. Once they entered the apartment, Sherlock threw the crutches on the floor next to the couch and let himself fall on the couch itself. He lied down, leaning his head back.

"Are you going to sleep on the couch?" John asked surprised and - oddly enough - slightly irritated.

"Hardly," Sherlock replied, his deep voice booming through the room. "Hand me that box will you?" He waved his hand in the direction of the box, or so John presumed.

"Er…" John turned around to see what box Sherlock had been pointing at, but he couldn't see any box. "Er… what box?" He asked, fully prepared to be yelled at.

Sherlock let out a long aggravated breath. The wooden one on the mantel piece. The one with the engravings."

John walked over to the mantel piece and saw the small box Sherlock meant. It looked intriguing and he wondered what it could be for. He handed it to Sherlock, who opened it and took out a smaller box. This one was made out of cardboard.

"Nicotine patches?" John asked surprised. "You keep your nicotine patches on the mantel piece?"

"Where else should I leave them?" Sherlock asked indifferent.

Sherlock rolled up one of his sleeves to reveal an arm that already had two patches on it. "You had nicotine patches in the hospital?" John asked outraged. What else had he been doing in the hospital.

"And…," John started to ask as he had now noticed Sherlock's clothes, "who's clothes are you wearing exactly?" And how did he get them?

Sherlock sighed. "Unimportant," he said.

John gritted his teeth and refused to ask the question again, because he knew Sherlock would only enjoy not telling him. "I'm going to do the shopping," he said. He needed to clear his head and they really did need bread. "Do you need something?" Besides a near overdose of nicotine… "I'm fine," Sherlock said. Somehow even that annoyed John.

After the groceries John had dinner by himself in a restaurant near the apartment. John almost felt tempted himself to pick up smoking. Perhaps it would relax him in moments like these. Sherlock was the most infuriating person he had ever met. And two months ago he almost killed himself. The worst thing was that it had all been in vain. Moriarty was gone. Still, for all they knew Moriarty had been killed, because it was a bit odd that they both had been left alone all this time.

John reached 221b Baker Street when it had already gone dark. He found Sherlock sleeping on the couch, so he retired to his own room. John had been planning on doing some reading or perhaps checking his e-mails. But decided against it. He was exhausted after everything that had happened and checking his e-mails would be pointless, because he would only be looking for an e-mail from Sarah and he knew he wouldn't find one.

"Sherlock, the police are on their way!" John yelled, his voice sounded distorted, as it often did in his dreams. In shock and horror John stared at the two figures at the top of the stairs. Both struggling for control, but he knew who would win and he knew what would happen next.

It was the same dream he had been having almost every night since the events at the Reijkenberg factory. He couldn't stop them and he couldn't change them. Every night he would relive what had happened that day.

"Sherlock!" John yelled as he realised what his friend was about to do. The shorter of the two man on the stairs had realised as well. Moriarty struggled against Sherlock, who was taller and stronger than him. His eyes stared at the pale eyes of his opponent. Their was no fear in those pale eyes, but fear was all Moriarty felt.

"Sherlock!" John yelled again, now rushing towards the stairs, knowing his friend wouldn't listen to him. John ran as fast as he could, he had to get there in time.

But there was a truth he already knew before witnessing what looked to be Sherlock's final act. He was too late. He was too late every night. And every night he was forced to watch his friend haul himself over the ledge and see him fall.

You can't survive a fall from that height, John's mind told him as he stood there, frozen, reduced to a witness. Forced to do nothing but watch as the two figures fell down together, and finally crashed on the cold stone floor.

The sound it made was almost as horrible as the visual.

John hurried to the two broken figures on the floor. He kneeled down beside Sherlock, who had his eyes closed but John could hear his troubled breathing. "Sherlock. Sherlock!" John willed his friend to open his eyes. He had seen too many people died and he knew you stood a better chance if you stayed conscious. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock's eyes slowly opened and at the same time his face twisted in pain. "I know it hurts, but you have to stay awake," John said. He felt this was exactly the kind of situation where his training should kick in, but somehow it refused.

Julia was on the phone, and kept her distance. Perhaps she couldn't handle it, or maybe she simply didn't care.

John tried to asses the damage. Tried to look at it as if it was damaged property, rather than the dying body of his friend. Sherlock's left leg was obviously broken, and his right arm had a deep cut. Undoubtedly he had internal bleeding and god knew how many fractures John wouldn't be able to see. His back at least wasn't broken, that in itself was a miracle. One John was certain Sherlock would dismiss. But John would always be grateful for it."

"You have to stay awake," John said again. Mainly because what else could he say? Admit how he secretly believed Sherlock wouldn't survive the night?

Finally, John could hear ambulances approaching. He turned to look at Julia, but she was gone.

Within minutes the paramedics where arriving, led by Julia. Reluctantly John gave up his place next to Sherlock so the paramedics could reach him.

John noticed they were getting out two gurneys, the other one was for Moriarty of course, but John suddenly felt rage at that realisation. Moriarty didn't deserve the same treatment as Sherlock did. With his medical training it wouldn't be difficult for John to think up a way of killing Moriarty in a way that would make it look as if he had died from his wounds. And to be fair, there still was a good chance he would die from his wounds. Just because they were lifting him onto a gurney and not into a body bag didn't mean he would survive.

Which is just as true of Sherlock, John thought to himself.

John was walking next to Sherlock's gurney when they got outside. There were two ambulances and a police car. John glanced at Moriarty, who was already in one of the ambulances, he still hadn't woken up and John could see from the expressions on the paramedics's faces that they didn't have high-hopes for him. John watched as the ambulance drove off.

A big black car pulled up next to the remaining ambulance. The driver got out and opened the door for his client. Mycroft. John turned his head to meet Julia's gaze and judge whether she was the one who had called Sherlock's brother, but she was gone again.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said as John approached him. "I've come for my brother."

"I doubt he'll be able to speak to you right now," John said coldly.

Mycroft raised his chin slightly and his mouth pulled into a thin razor sharp smile. "I did what I could to protect him," Mycroft said and John knew he meant Julia. "Now I've come to do what I can to aid in his recovery."

John narrowed his eyes. "Recovery?"

Mycroft's expression changed as he gestured towards the remaining ambulance. "It's an exclusive one."

"Exclusive? How do you mean, does it bring you to some kind of private hospital?"

"In a sense," Mycroft said, the smile coming back to his face.

John wanted to respond, but before he could, he got distracted by the fact that two large paramedics where know heaving Sherlock into the ambulance. John rushed towards the ambulance. "Wait, I'm coming with him," he said. He already had one foot in the ambulance and was about to get in, when one of the paramedics put a hand on his chest and quite literally pushed him out of the vehicle.

John lost his balance and fell to the ground. When he scrambled back to his feet he was ready to punch someone, but Mycroft intervened. "He can go with him," he said to the paramedic who had pushed John out. The man moved out of John's way and John got in, giving the man a warning look.

John turned to Mycroft, "aren't you coming?" Mycroft shook his head and before John could go on to tell Mycroft he was an ass, the ambulance door shut.

John woke up and felt grateful he had woken up before they reach the next part of the dream. It was horrible enough to have all these memories of that night, but to have to relive them every time he went to sleep was unnecessarily cruel.

The ride to the hospital had been horrible, Sherlock's breathing had stopped and while that had only last minutes, it had been the worst moments of that night. Even worse than when they discovered Moriarty had escaped.

After both ambulances had left, just minutes later, two other ambulances had arrived. Those had been the ambulances Julia's call had brought. The two ambulances that had taken Sherlock and Moriarty away had been send by Mycroft and Moriarty's people - whoever they were.

Moriarty was nowhere to be found, naturally. Sherlock had seemed particularly unimpressed by the news. John had decided not to tell him until Sherlock had been through the worst of his recovery, but Sherlock had guessed it himself. John didn't know how Sherlock had guessed it, but knowing his friend it would probably be some strange little fact that put him onto it. He might have deduced it by the simple fact that John seemed awkward, or had changed his cologne, or looked paler.

John stretched his arms and forced himself to get out of bed. He was shocked when he saw that it was already past noon. These days he seemed to sleep for hours without being rested when waking up. He had stopped working at the clinic, he and Sarah both referred to it as a temporary thing, but John knew neither of them believed that. After everything she'd been through she couldn't possibly still want anything to do with him.

John found Sherlock sitting in one of the lounge chairs in the living room, he had his legs stretched in front of him, with the crutches leaning against the armrest of the chair. "Could you hand me the paper?" Sherlock said without even looking at John.

"Er…," John looked around the room. Did he mean, get a paper from the shop? "Er… this one?" he asked, with sudden indignation. John picked up the paper that was lying on the small coffee table just in front of Sherlock. "Couldn't you have gotten it yourself?"

Sherlock said nothing in response, instead he simply tapped his crutches with his left hand. John let out a long exasperated breath. Living with Sherlock was never easy, but living with a Sherlock who had a disability he could milk was going to be much, much worse.

John thrust the paper in Sherlock's hands. Sherlock seemed to ignore this passive aggressive gesture in the same way he always did. He laid the paper flat on his lap and started to straighten it out - John's actions had turned the news paper into a crumpled mess of paper.

"Got a text telling me the police have been busy with an interesting new case," Sherlock said. "Undoubtedly they'll be in need of assistance by now."

"A text? Who from?" John was certain it wasn't Lestrade because he had told Lestrade he didn't want Sherlock getting involved in any new cases until his leg had fully healed. Otherwise - with the way Sherlock led his life, there was too much risk of permanent damage.

"A source," Sherlock replied. "Now, let's see if there have been any new developments." Sherlock opened the news paper. It wasn't long before the familiar smirk had appeared on Sherlock's face. Worried about what this would mean, but also undeniably curious, John walked around Sherlock to be able to read along over his shoulder.

Sirius Insurance Murder

It wasn't on the front page, but seemed to have captured Sherlock's attention immediately. John didn't understand why, because if this was part of a bigger case, why was there no reference to any connection with any other crimes?

"Found what you're looking for?" John asked.

Sherlock grinned, he answered without his eyes ever leaving the page. "Hardly."

John waited a while, hoping Sherlock would explain further. But naturally that was a futile hope. "Then what did you find?" John asked eventually, irritated by Sherlock's silent smirking.

As if on purpose, Sherlock's grin became wider before he finally said, "something much better."

Sherlock sprung up from the chair, but kept al his weight on his right leg, he picked up one of the crutches and made his way to his laptop, that was on the kitchen table. John picked up Sherlock's other crutch and followed him.

As the computer was powering up, Sherlock turned to John. "I need you to call Lestrade for me," Sherlock said while handing John his phone.

"Sherlock, I don't think it's a good idea to get involved in another case when you…"

"He's under 1 - speed dial," Sherlock interrupted John.

John sighed and gave up. When he could hear the phone was ringing, John handed the mobile to Sherlock again.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said in a surprisingly jovial tone of voice. "The Sirius Case, I know who did it."


	2. Chapter 2

John tried to shift his leg in a slightly less awkward position, but it was impossible with Sherlock's crutches wedge inside the cab with them. Although, Sherlock seemed untroubled by it.

John was thankful when they finally reached the police station. The cabbie helped Sherlock get out, leaving John to struggle with the crutches. Aggravated beyond reason, John clambered out of the cab, dragging the damn crutches behind him. He walked over to Sherlock and handed him the crutches, but Sherlock refused to take both of them, instead he insisted on just using the one.

Even in his slightly incapacitated form, Sherlock was still the one leading with John walked just behind him, rattling on and on about why Sherlock needed to use both of his crutches. "Sherlock, it will cause permanent damage if you put too much strain on it before…" Sherlock did his best to drown out the incessant 'good advice' of his friend. It wasn't necessarily that he distrusted John's opinion, or dismissed his advice at random, Sherlock simply knew he would get around a lot quicker with just one crutch. Besides, he had never been particularly concerned with his physical health.

"Sherlock," Lestrade greeted him. "Dr. Watson," he nodded at John. John propped the 'spare' crutch he'd been carrying up against the wall.

Sherlock studied Lestrade's face as the inspector stared at the crutch. Lestrade turned back to Sherlock. It was painfully obvious to Sherlock that Lestrade was about to say something incredibly mundane. Most likely, he would've remarked upon Sherlock's health, or how lucky he was to have survived at all. But thankfully Lestrade was stopped by the awkward situation that arose when Sally Donovan entered the room. She looked at Sherlock and then at Sherlock's crutch and then at the floor, which is where her eyes stayed while she quickly walked passed the group.

Lestrade suddenly seemed uneasy as well and gestured for Sherlock and John to follow him to his office. "I assume you've read the new reports about the murder," Lestrade said, glancing back at them over his shoulder.

"Naturally," Sherlock answered, "are there any facts you're keeping from the public?"

Lestrade clenched his jaw - he was familiar with Sherlock's work method. He did his best to hide his aggravation as he held the door open for Sherlock and John - because it would've seemed rude to hold the door for Sherlock and not John, crutch or no crutch. "I'm assuming you know a few facts we've overlooked."

"Obviously."

Sherlock took his time. He quite enjoyed this moment in his job, when the police was staring at him blank-eyed when they could already have had the answer, if only they could be bothered with using their brains.

"I would say the most important thing I know about this case, is the identity of the killer," Sherlock paused, "or should I say assassin?"

"Assassin?" John asked.

Sherlock tilted his head and seemed genuinely surprised at John's ignorance. "Of course," he said, narrowing his eyes. "I would've expected you would have recognised the work method as well, after our last case."

John's brow puckered; he didn't like being told he was an idiot, however indirectly. Then it hit him. "You mean Julia."

"Julia?" Lestrade exclaimed, clearly surprised Sherlock and John were on a first name base with the murderer.

"The Barracuda," Sherlock corrected John.

Lestrade frowned at the name. "As in the assassin?"

Sherlock let out a long deep breath. "Evidently."

"You don't think it's highly unlikely she'd still be in the country after the events at…" Lestrade suddenly fell silent. Sherlock realised that Lestrade wanted to avoid naming the Reijkenberg factory, though he didn't entirely understand why.

"Yes, based on what I know of the case."

Lestrade looked at his unlikely colleague with the familiar sense of annoyance creeping up on him. Sherlock was brilliant, and Lestrade couldn't deny that, but he was always infinitely irritated by Sherlock's need for an audience. Sherlock's taste for the dramatic. How clinical and cold the man tried to be, you could always see he was just as inefficient as the rest of them when it came to the delivery of his conclusions.

Sherlock could never come out and say what he knew. There always had to be a build-up. If Lestrade could fancy himself Sherlock's superior for even a minute, he would've told Sherlock to stop the performances and just do his job. But as things were, Lestrade was constantly aware of having to abide with whatever insane behaviour Sherlock decided to display next.

Lestrade needed Sherlock's brilliance, unfortunately that meant accepting his childish need for attention as well. To people who had not known Sherlock for as long as Lestrade had, it would seem absurd that such a brilliant man needed the approval of the world. Needed to be told he was more astute than any of them. But Sherlock Holmes had always needed that.

And in John Watson he had found that, Lestrade supposed. It was certainly true that Sherlock had become a lot less irritating since he had been joined by this strange companion. Sherlock was still behaved juvenile towards all authority figures, and Lestrade doubted that would ever fade, but John Watson did make Sherlock seem… more human, however strange that sounded.

"I believe the Barracuda's preferred method of killing is poison, right?" Lestrade asked. He hoped he was right, because the consequence of getting this wrong would be more of Sherlock's belittling comments, and that could just push him over the edge.

Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade. His face seemed completely inanimate at first. But slowly Sherlock's lips pressed together and his eyes grew even colder. "Yes," he said tersely. "Which I assume was the coroner's conclusion."

Lestrade clenched his jaw. He'd never understood that whole routine of counting to ten when you're angry, instead he just reminded himself of the simple fact that he needed to solve this case. There were people who had cared for this man when he was alive, and they deserved to know the details of his death. Moreover, there was a murderer out there, a murderer Lestrade could catch if he bit his tongue and let Sherlock get on with it.

Sherlock smirked at the struggling detective. He couldn't help it. Lestrade was the only member of the police Sherlock could easily work with. He realised this was mainly because Lestrade had learned to listen to Sherlock, rather than try and establish his dominance by trying to be more brilliant than Sherlock. A mistake most of the younger officers continued to make.

Sherlock looked around the room, and through the office windows to the office floor. He could see Donovan moving about out there, intensely looking anywhere but at Lestrade's office. Part of Sherlock knew where this very human reaction was coming from, but he didn't fully understand. None the less he felt pleased with himself; it felt like once again he'd beaten Donovan. Her hate for him was unreasonable and based on a case he'd been involved in ages ago.

Sherlock focused his attention on the conversation again. Lestrade was looking at him, with his chin slightly raised and his eyes wide with expectation. John had his arms crossed and was very clearly trying not to say anything. Sherlock smiled, revelled in the knowledge they were waiting for him to speak.

"The coroner's report?" Sherlock addressed Lestrade.

"Poison, yes," Lestrade said.

Sherlock gave a little nod. "It's the Barracuda. But you won't catch her. And even if you did, you would never be able to convict her."

Lestrade suddenly become a lot more invested in the case, it seemed. "Why would we not? We have Andrew Lister's body. We have the toxology report."

"And no real way of connecting those two things to the Barracuda. Except for through my testimony. And unfortunately the courts - and certainly the jury - will not except that as sufficient proof."

"You could convince them," John said. Not because he believed that to be true, but because he was trying to keep the peace between Sherlock and Lestrade. A position he had found himself in ever since their first encounter.

"No, I could not. Proof has very little place in a court with a jury to convince. You need charm. Something I'm sure you'd agree, I do not posses."

Lestrade turned on his heels and proceeded with pacing up and down the room. "Then we must find more proof, or perhaps we can make her confess."

"That's assuming you will catch her," Sherlock said, his tone of voice clearly indicating he considered that to be a near impossibility.

"You think she will get away?"

"Naturally," Sherlock simply replied. Lestrade looked at him with burning eyes. He never liked it when Sherlock questioned his department's competence. Sherlock noticed Lestrade's look and realised his last statement needed more explanation. "She's much more competent than your officers."

John sensed this was going to end badly, so he decided to intervene. "I could give you a description of her," John said.

"There would be no point," Sherlock interjected before Lestrade could respond.

"Of course there would be," John said irritably, "I think I could give a very…"

"I agree with Sherlock," Lestrade interrupted John. "But not for the same reasons, I would expect. I simply don't think the Barracuda was responsible for this death."

Sherlock looked incredulous. "Lestrade, this is clearly the work of the Barracuda. Every…"

"No it is not," Lestrade said, "just because Lister was poisoned, does not mean he was murdered by one of Europe's leading assassins."

"The leading assassin in Europe," Sherlock corrected Lestrade.

"And," Lestrade continued as if Sherlock had never spoken, "we already have a lead suspect."

"I'm not amazed to find that once again you have screwed up your investigation, but out of interest, tell me who you've arrested."

Lestrade moved uneasily, shifting his weight to his other leg. "There have been no arrests yet," he said defensively, his arms now crossed.

"Quelle surprise," Sherlock answered.

Lestrade pursed his lips. "David Manchester, our main suspect, worked for the same company and he's been missing from the time that the murder took place. Also, the security camera's… most of the footage is missing."

"And you think David Manchester is the killer, because he happened to disappear at the same time?"

"Yes, and then there's the missing camera footage as I mentioned, and the missing money."

"How much?" Sherlock asked.

"Enough to warrant killing for," Lestrade answered.

Sherlock nodded. "How did you discover the missing money?"

Lestrade swallowed. "All the paperwork was spread out on the desk. I assume it is a warning."

"To anyone else who plans to steal from the company?" John asked.

Lestrade nodded. "The trail was far to obvious, but the crime had been hidden remarkably well. There's a good chance we would have never discovered it for ourselves… it must have been a warning."

"But who send it, that's the question we should be focusing on," Sherlock interjected, irritated by how slow the conversation was moving forward.

"The murderer of course," Lestrade answered, equally irritated.

Sherlock turned around and took a few steps, which looked nothing as threatening as it normally did, now he had to drag his crutch along with him. "Which you think is Manchester?"

Lestrade nodded, but had the distinct feeling Sherlock was leading him into a trap.

"So Manchester send this warning?" Sherlock asked incredulous. "Just another employee, warning another employee not to steal from the boss?"

Lestrade looked flustered all of the sudden. How could he have missed this. "Perhaps Lister was encroaching on Manchester's territory," Lestrade suggested.

"Did the paperwork suggest such a thing?"

"No," Lestrade admitted.

"Maybe Manchester left that part out, when he left the paperwork as evidence," John offered.

Sherlock turned on the ball of his foot to face his flatmate. It was something Sherlock did a lot, but this time he had to steady himself on his crutch. "Then it would not have worked very efficiently, as a warning that is," Sherlock said coldly - clearly irritated by the stupidity of the people around him.

"And you are both missing something obvious," Sherlock said, now addressing both of them. "A warning is left for someone. For who would this warning be? The dead Lister? Obviously not. His other colleagues? Doubtful, considering Manchester won't be able to steal from this office again, if he ever did. After all, once the murder comes out, and the method which they used for the theft becomes clear to the company, that opportunity will disappear forever. Not only will the company take measures to prevent further theft in this way, they will also fire Manchester. Manchester will go on the run and will have to hide his identity - most likely. So who was the warning for?"

Lestrade looked amazed. How had he missed this? John looked astonished and mimed 'amazing,' to himself. Sherlock noticed and couldn't help but smile.

"Clearly the warning was for someone else. Or send by someone else. Manchester can't be the killer if the warning was to keep people from stealing from the company - after all the warning could only have come from the murderer," Sherlock paused, "or her employer."

Lestrade realised Sherlock had said her employer, but he didn't want to get into another argument about the killer's identity. Lestrade sighed. "Just tell me what you think, Sherlock."

Sherlock smirked. "It far more likely this is the work of an assassin hired by someone a lot more powerful than Manchester. The warning was to anyone planning to steal from this person." Sherlock fell quiet after that. Both Lestrade and John awaited further explanation, but Sherlock simply took out his phone and started to look something up.

Lestrade and John shared a look of frustration. However, neither of them spoke, and both knew it was probably worth the wait.

Leaning on his crutch, Sherlock had only one hand to operate the phone. He quickly became irritated by that, and made his way to the desk. John rushed to his side, wanting to help. Sherlock looked surprised by this, but let John take the crutch from him and help him in a chair.

Sherlock continued his search. He knew he needed to find out the true owner of this company, then he would find out who had hired the Barracuda to kill Lister. But so far he could find nothing. Which meant this was a more powerful man than he'd expected. He would need Mycroft's help - again. Which annoyed Sherlock to no end.

"How much security footage is missing?" Sherlock asked Lestrade.

"All of it. They store the footage for three months, on usb-sticks, and it's all missing."

Sherlock nodded. "And how certain are you Manchester has been missing from the same day that Lister was murdered?"

"It's slightly complicated," Lestrade said. John thought he sounded like a child turning in his schoolwork. "Manchester was investigating a claim, so he hadn't been in for a few days."

"So it is possible he has been missing longer than Lister has been dead?"

Lestrade frowned, "I suppose, but I don't see how that is relevant to the case."

"It will be if it turns out Manchester has been dead longer than Lister," Sherlock said.

"You believe he is dead?"

"Yes."

"But why?"

"Something you said actually," Sherlock said and he smiled at Lestrade before dragging himself to his feet - well his foot and crutch - and leaving the office.

John looked apologetic at Lestrade, shrugged his shoulders and than quickly followed Sherlock.

They walked together in silence for a while, until John couldn't take it anymore. "Well, are you going to tell me what you discovered?"

"Discovered?" Sherlock asked innocently.

John let out a long sigh. "I saw you on your phone. You were clearly looking something up and when you found it, you left."

Sherlock smiled - invisible to John. "Very good reasoning, Doctor Watson, but you're wrong, as usual."

John let out an aggravated breath. "But you did think of something new and relevant to the case, I mean you just said so to Lestrade. Or where you just trying to rile him?"

Sherlock smiled at John's insight. "Partly, yes," Sherlock answered. "But Lestrade did make me think. It is too much of a coincidence that both Manchester and Lister disappeared around the same time. Especially because they worked together quite a lot I would imagine."

"Why would you imagine that?"

"Didn't you notice the photos?"

"What photos?"

"The crime scene photos."

John tried to think of when Sherlock had been handling a file but he couldn't think of anything. "I didn't see any…"

Sherlock sighed. "On the desk, John," he explained.

Lestrade's desk, the one Sherlock had been sitting behind, of course.

"There were several photo's of the crime scene and a photo of David Manchester - who I recognised from the crime scene photos. Lister had been killed in his office and on his bureau there was a framed photograph. But not one of his family - if he had one - but of two people on a fishing trip."

"Lister and Manchester?" John asked.

"Precisely!"

"They were friends?"

"It would seem so, which doesn't rule out Lestrade's theory of Manchester killing Lister, but I do think it confirms his theory of them both stealing from the company. Just not separate from each other, but rather together."

"There's no real reason to think Manchester was stealing as well," John pointed out.

"Except for the fact that he disappeared," Sherlock simply stated. "Never assume something's a coincidence, John."

John ignored Sherlock's 'educational' remark. "And you think that's why Lister was killed?"

"I think that's why they were both killed."

"Both?" John asked surprised. "But there's no reason to assume Manchester's dead."

"Isn't there?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I suppose there wouldn't be if Manchester really disappeared at the same time as Lister."

"No, you're getting it wrong, if they disappeared on the same day it would be more likely that they would both be dead."

Sherlock seemed slightly irritated by John's criticism. "No…," Sherlock began to say with a strange mock patience in his voice. "If they had disappeared on the same day, I would've said that Manchester discovered Lister had been killed and went on the run. Or, as Lestrade would suggest, that Manchester killed Lister and then went on the run. Because, if the reason for Manchester's disappearance that day had been death, his body would've been found in the same building, or possible at the site of whatever claim he was investigating."

John looked confused, so Sherlock continued.

"You have to remember, John, their deaths would both have been a warning, so we would've been 'allowed' to find the bodies. Otherwise it isn't much of a warning. Besides, there's little reason I can think of why an assassin would decide to leave one body in plain sight and hide the other one."

That seemed obvious to John. "To cover up her trail of course - assuming it is Julia we're looking for."

"There is no reason to hide a body if you do the murder properly," Sherlock said. "A professional like the Barracuda would certainly know that."

"But why would you think they are both dead, if Manchester disappeared before Lister's death?"

"Because he had no reason to go on the run. It's clear Manchester and Lister didn't realise the 'boss' - whoever he is - knew about their theft, otherwise Lister wouldn't have been in his office that day either. So why would Manchester run? He simply wouldn't, so, if Manchester did disappear before Lister's death, he must have been killed himself."

"Alright, but how do we find out how long Manchester has been missing."

Sherlock sighed. "I don't know yet. And how do we find out who killed him, if he does turn out to be dead - which seems the most likely conclusion to me."

That confused John a little. "We know who killed him, don't we? It was Julia."

Sherlock shook his head. "No John, as I explained before, it makes no sense that she would kill Manchester and hide his body and then kill Lister and leave him on display. There are two different methods here, and that means there must be two killers."

John shook his head. "I don't think that's true. I didn't see the crime scene photos but from what I've gathered about this murder so far, it doesn't sound like there were two killers involved. You work differently when you go out with a team, it wouldn't…"

"Stop thinking as a military man," Sherlock said, "I don't expect the Barracuda ever works with anyone. I think there were two killers who worked separately from each other, perhaps even unbeknownst to each other."

"I thought you didn't believe in coincidences," John asked sourly.

"I don't, and I don't believe this was one. I think that the something that happened to cause Manchester's death will have drawn attention to the theft."


	3. Chapter 3

This time John didn't help Sherlock out of the cab. He still felt a bit put upon and thought he at least deserved some respect from Sherlock. But however annoyed he was with his flatmate at the moment, John had followed him nonetheless. He hadn't asked where they were going, because he knew the answer wouldn't be helpful.

Sirius Insurance. John stared up at the gigantic sign that had been mounted on the building's façade, somehow he'd expected this building to be bigger.

"We're visiting the crime scene," John said as he turned to Sherlock who had finally managed to get himself and his crutch out of the cab.

"Obviously," Sherlock answered as he made his way to the entrance. John paid the cabbie and followed.

When they reached the crime scene John was surprised to see an officer there. Clearly the officer recognised Sherlock because he didn't say a word as he let the two of them in. Sherlock took a small black rectangle from his pocket, he slid it open to reveal it was actually a magnifying glass. John ignored Sherlock and decided to look around on his own.

On the desk he saw the photograph Sherlock had mentioned and it did indeed look like Manchester and Lister had been close friends in life. But as Sherlock had said, that did not mean they wouldn't have turned on each other. A thought that saddened John. He had always been fiercely loyal when it came to people he cared about. Though he had not always been able to protect them from getting hurt because of their connection to him.

Once again his thoughts went to Sarah and how he would love to see her again, but she wouldn't even answer his texts.

"What are they doing in there?" A young man asked. John turned to see who it was. The young man who had spoken, wasn't as young as his voice would suggest, late twenties, early thirties maybe. The officer who had let John and Sherlock through was now stopping the blonde man from entering. The man was quite a bit taller than the officer but didn't push through. "What are you doing in there? The police has already been several times and I don't…"

"You were Andrew Lister's assistant?" Sherlock asked.

The man fumed, "not exactly."

Suddenly John remembered him. He had seen him behind a desk, when they had come in.

"Are you with the police?" the man asked Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled. "Not exactly."

"Then maybe you should leave."

John turned to look at Sherlock, who was studying the man intently.

"Inspector," a deep male voice said. John turned to face the door again and saw a short, very overweight man standing next to the blonde man. It was clear this man was the blonde's man's superior, because the blonde man cowered like a dog.

"Mr. Baker, perhaps you would like to return to your desk now?" Baker gave a quick nod and disappeared.

"Sorry about that, that was Simon Baker, he was Andrew Lister's trainee, I believe he is still upset about the… incident." The short man stepped forward, entering the room - the officer let him pass. "My name is John Monroe, I'm the department head who discovered the body." Monroe extended his hand to Sherlock, who just looked at it.

"Show me where you keep your security footage," Sherlock said.

Monroe was visibly irritated by Sherlock's tone of voice, but didn't protest. "Of course," he gestured for Sherlock and John to follow him. "But the footage in question is missing."

"I know," Sherlock said, "I intend to find it."

They entered a small, depressing looking room. It had a lot of screens in it, but no one to look at them.

"Where are the guards?" John asked.

Monroe suddenly looked flustered. "In these times companies have to make cutbacks to survive, we opted to let go of most of our security staff. You see we have never been a company that has had much need…"

"It's irrelevant," Sherlock said. "You can go back to your office floor now, my colleague and I will manage on our own." Sherlock said it in such a commanding tone that Monroe left almost immediately .

When the door had shut behind Monroe, John turned to Sherlock. "How were you planning on finding the footage? I mean, don't you think the killer must have already taken care of it - destroyed it, rather than having it lying around to incriminate him?"

"Hmm, depends on which killer got rid of it."

"And you think you know who?"

Sherlock smiled at John. "Yes. Whoever killed Manchester."

"If Manchester is dead, that is."

Sherlock paused before answering. "I'm beginning to be convinced that he must be. I don't see the Barracuda getting rid of the security footage. It's not her method. True, she will want to hide her appearance from the world, but have you seen the 'quality' of the camera footage from this place?" Sherlock gestured to the screen. "It's grainy and filmed at such an angle that you can't see anyone's face properly."

"But then why would the killer - the other killer have taken the footage?" John asked.

Sherlock seemed slightly surprised by the question. "Well that's obvious, isn't it?" One look at John's face told him it wasn't. "The killer in question would be recognised by something else."

"How would that work?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Evidently the killer is someone familiar to the office staff. Someone they would recognise by more than just his face. For instance, if I were to replay the footage of us walking into the building, you would recognise me immediately, right?"

"Sure," John said.

"The killer thinks the same will happen to him, so, he must be an employee."

"You think Manchester's murder was caught on tape as well?"

"No, I don't think Manchester was killed here, that would be to risky for an amateur. I think the camera's caught something else on tape, something that would incriminate the murderer."

"You said you could find the missing footage."

"Most likely, yes," Sherlock answered, and a smile appeared on his face. Sherlock opened the door to the hallway. "The footage didn't disappear until the day they found Lister's body. Which is when the killer panicked and realised the police would look at the camera footage and discover his identity, so he took it before they could. But if he were an employee, he couldn't have left the building at that time without immediately having made himself suspicious. So he needed to get rid of it here - far too risky to keep it on your person, after all most likely the police will search everyone in the building before they leave.

"And even in all this chaos the killer couldn't have taken the time to hide it somewhere too far away from where he normally is in the building. After all with so many police officers in the building it's best to avoid any suspicious behaviour. And I don't think he could've had time to destroy it. Most likely he just hid it. Considering all the facts, he must have hidden it between this room and his own work space," Sherlock said. He left the room.

John quickly followed. "But we don't know who he is, so we don't know where his workspace is, how are we supposed to find the usb-sticks?"

"By starting to look," Sherlock said irritably. "We start with this corridor and if we don't find anything else we move to the next. Check anything you could hide 12 usb-sticks in - they use one for every week. You can skip things like bins - they get emptied too often and the police will most certainly have checked them. Drawers, books, file cabinets are all too obvious. It will be somewhere people never look. Most likely something that has been here so long it has become part of the scenery, so no one ever notices it. It will have to be able to hide all the sticks without becoming obviously cramped with extra contents."

John looked at Sherlock and wasn't sure if he agreed with his friend's logic, but he would listen to him anyway.

Sherlock limped on in front of John, as John himself looked around the corridor. He checked on top of the door post, feeling around with his fingers because he wasn't tall enough to see. He checked the wall for hollow spots, but felt ridiculous doing so. Sherlock meanwhile was far ahead of John and John suspected that meant he was looking in the wrong places.

The useless hunt went on for almost twenty minutes. The last five John had spend with just staring at Sherlock, hoping he had found something. Investigating was a lot more boring than most people realised.

A small cry of victory coming from Sherlock, informed John his friend had been successful.

Sherlock was standing at the window at the end of the corridor, where the corridor itself led into an open space - the office floor just outside Lister's office. John hurried over.

"What?"

"Look at this John," Sherlock said, standing in front of the window. "Tell me, what do you notice?"

John took a deep breath. He hated this little 'tests' Sherlock always made him take. John already realised Sherlock was more clever than he was, he wished Sherlock would just come out with what he had discovered.

"Nothing Sherlock, I notice nothing."

"Yes you do, just look."

John looked, the view wasn't very special, and only breathtaking because they were high up. The window itself was rather dirty and there were no curtains which John imagined must be annoying when the sun is shining in your face. On the window sill there was a potted plant. A moderately good fake in one of those ugly pots made out off recycled paper.

"I don't see anything."

"You see, you just…"

"Could you please just tell me what you've discovered?" John pleaded.

"The missing usb-sticks of course," Sherlock said.

John noticed that by now several people had stopped their work and were now leaning back in their chairs, trying to see what was going on in the corridor.

"Look at the potted plant. What do you notice about it?"

"It's ugly, fake and the plant pot itself is made out off recycled paper."

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I believe that's quite popular these days, in offices, recycling," Sherlock smiled a little. "Shows these big companies have a heart. Or at least it shows they're willing to put in the effort to make it look like they have a heart."

"Alright, but what does that tell us about the usb-sticks?"

"Everything," Sherlock smiled. "The problem with paper is, it fades rather quickly when exposed to sunlight. And this pot is faded on the wrong side."

Sherlock looked intently at John, almost as if willing the knowledge into his friend's mind.

"It's faded on the side facing the room, instead of the one facing the window," Sherlock said. "This plant has been moved very recently, but not to clean it - it's dusty - and not to water it, because it's a fake. The very clear line between where it has faded and where it has not, suggests it has been moved only once," Sherlock paused, and John was certain it was only for dramatic effect. "To put the usb-stick in," Sherlock concluded.

Sherlock took the potted plant from the window sill and instructed John to pull on the pot itself, while Sherlock pulled on the plant. The two came apart, revealing there was no dirt in the pot, instead there was a big chunk of polystyrene attached to the plant itself, covered with a little dirt to make it look like dirt. It was logical because why give a fake plant real dirt. John looked in the plant pot he was now holding in his arms, he already knew what he was going to find inside; he had heard the rattle of small plastic objects as the plant had come free.

"The usb-sticks," Sherlock said triumphantly.


	4. Chapter 4

To say Lestrade was annoyed by the Sherlock's taunting, was an understatement. He knew it was petty of him to resent Sherlock, while the man had just given him the most important lead in this case, but he couldn't always help it.

One of the agents on the case entered Lestrade's office. Sherlock and John turned around to face him. "There's one week missing," the young woman said. "She was carrying the bag that contained the usb-sticks. "Every stick represents one week, and there's one missing. But it isn't the one the murder took place in. It's three weeks earlier." The young agent was clearly confused by this. Lestrade strode over to her and took the bag from her. "Thank you Lawless," he said to her, and guided her out of the office.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock. "Well? Any theories?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and seemed to be staring into space. "None besides the obvious," he answered.

Lestrade tried his hardest to restrain himself. "And the obvious is?" He asked, putting emphasis on every word.

"This proofs my theory that there were two separate killers."

"Does it?"

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. "Obviously, why would the Barracuda take that one, and hide all the others?"

"I'm still not convinced it was the Barracuda…"

"Let one of your agents check the footage of the day Lister was murder," Sherlock interrupted the inspector. "I assure you, you will see the Barracuda," Sherlock looked over his shoulder to make eye contact with John. "Take John, he'll recognise her."

Lestrade sighed, "I think we should all go," he said defeated.

They all stood there, crowded in this tiny space. The agent at the controls was quickly skipping through the footage to get to the right time.

John shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable way of standing. The tiny room they were in was never meant to have four people in it. He did his best not to stand pressed up against Lestrade, but if he leaned to far from Lestrade, he'd be pushed up against Sherlock, who was leaning on his crutch.

"This is it," Lestrade said to John and Sherlock.

"Obviously," Sherlock said. He moved forward a bit to be able to see the screen more clearly. He dropped his crutch and leaned on John's shoulder instead.

The footage was very choppy and grainy. The colours all seemed a bit washed out and there was a strange distortion in all four corners of the screen. John hardly saw the point of having footage like that. If something happened - like it had - it would be impossible to make out the culprit. Unless of course - as Sherlock had said - you knew them already.

A woman with long almost black hair entered the room. The room John recognised as Lister's office and the woman he recognised as being Julia. The woman who had once been hired to murder John and Sherlock.

Andrew Lister wasn't in the room yet. Julia circled his desk; John fancied he was the only one who could see that as a threatening display.

The door opened again and Lister entered. If he was surprised to find Julia there, it wasn't visible on the screen. He walked over to Julia, who was standing in front of the desk by now.

"I don't think I want to see this," John said suddenly. He had seen worse things during his time in the army, but somehow this felt disrespectful of the dead.

"I don't think there will be much to see," Sherlock said coolly.

And there wasn't. Lister approached Julia, there was no way of telling if he was at ease or not, but nothing in his movement would suggest he knew what was about to happen. Then suddenly, without warning, Julia's left arm shot forward, her fingers clasping Lister's wrist and pulling his arm towards her body, while her right hand shot forward with a syringe. It was hard to see, not just because the footage was of a low quality, but also because the syringe was almost completely hidden behind Julia's hand.

There was no sound to the footage, so no way of telling if Lister let out any cry of pain, after being stabbed with a syringe. Or if he said anything to Julia at all, as she just walked away and left the room.

Within seconds Lister was on the floor, gasping for air it would seem. Within 30 seconds he stopped moving at all.

John's blood grew cold. He would liked to have believed it was because of what he had just witnessed, but he knew he'd grown to numb to violence for it to effect him this strongly. It was the thought that this could have happened to Sarah. Julia had once threatened Sarah's life to get to John and eventually Sherlock. Somehow John had been able to repress the memory, but this brought it back in vivid colours. Sarah had almost been killed - again - and he would not have been able to do anything to protect her. Not his military training, nor his medical training would've saved Sarah's life, had Julia truly meant to kill her.

"And, is it her? Is it the Barracuda?" Lestrade asked, his voice strained.

"Yes, it is," Sherlock said, his eyes fixed on the screen where the agent had tried to zoom in on the Barracuda's face. A still frame too grainy to reveal anything and shot from an awkward angle. No one would recognise her from this, unless they already knew her face. And Sherlock did.

"So why do you think the murderer kept these?" Lestrade asked once they were back in his office. Sherlock had to repress a smile when he noted that Lestrade now fully accepted that there were two killers.

"Insurance," Sherlock said. "In case the police got too close to his identity, he could just send you the right usb-stick; you'd see the murder and presume Manchester was killed by the same man."

Lestrade ignored the hidden accusation in Sherlock's voice.

"Did you recover the missing money?" John asked.

Lestrade shook his head. "All we know is that they most likely transferred it to the Cayman Islands. But none of it has been found, despite the warrant."

"That would seem highly improbable," Sherlock interjected.

"Why?" John asked who took Sherlock's last remark to be an allegation of some sort.

"If they hid it there, surely they were intelligent enough to put it in someone else's name, which would make the warrant useless."

"I think we will have to wait for the results of the fingerprints," Lestrade said. "There were only two pairs on the potted plant, besides yours, so we should be able to narrow things down considerably."

"Good," Sherlock said, "text me when you get the results."

"Sherlock, where did you leave your other crutch? You know you're not supposed to be using just the one."

"I don't know where it is," Sherlock answered. He smiled at his flatmate. In fact, he did know where it was, well not exactly… But he had dumped it, got rid of it and if John tried to get another for him, he'd get rid of that one as well.

John sighed. "It could cause…"

"Hellooo," Mrs. Hudson entered the room, knocking on the door as if asking permission, but moving through the living room before anyone could stop her. She was carrying a tray with tea and biscuits.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said. Sherlock only glanced at her.

Mrs. Hudson put the tray down and straightened herself. "Do tell me if you need anything else, dear," she was addressing Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up at the elderly woman. And actually smiled. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson," he said, his voice unusually kind. John had sometimes wondered what exactly had happened during the case where Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock had met, because he seemed unusually human around her. At one point he'd even wondered if Mrs. Hudson wasn't related to Sherlock.

"So what's the plan?" John asked as he slumped down in his chair.

"Plan?" Sherlock asked.

"To catch Julia," John said.

"I don't think it's likely we'll be able to manage that," Sherlock said. Again John thought he sensed a strange kind of respect for this serial killer.

"But surely we can't let her get away with this, or the things she's done before!" John felt anger boiling up inside of him. This woman had threatened Sarah and almost killed Sherlock and John and here Sherlock was admiring her skills?

Sherlock slowly turned his head to look at John. "Of course we can. The Barracuda is an assassin, if we want to catch the person responsible for Lister's death, we need to find the person who employed her"

"That's not good enough!" John exclaimed. "Have you already forgotten what she's done?"

"No," Sherlock answered coolly, "have you?" He got to his feet and grabbed his crutch to lean on. "She also saved our lives, I might add."

"Only because she was being paid to!"

"And she was only trying to kill us because she was being paid to," Sherlock added simply. "Rationally speaking, if you are willing to dismiss her acts of goodness based on the fact that her only true motivation was monetary gain, than you must also dismiss her acts of cruelty on that basis."

John scowled at Sherlock. There was a cold logic to what he had said, but that simply wasn't how the world worked. Humans weren't rational when it came to things like this.

Sherlock hobbled towards the kitchen, planting himself on a strange stool that was next to the kitchen table.

It wasn't long before Sherlock's phone suddenly rang. "Could you get that," Sherlock said without looking up from the piece of paper he was studying.

John mumbled something under his breath, but then got up to answer Sherlock's mobile - that had been resting just in front of Sherlock.

After a short conversation, John replaced the phone. "It was Lestrade, they got the results. One belongs to one of the cleaning staff and the other set belongs to Lister's assistant. They gave me his address; they're heading over there right now."

By the time Sherlock and John arrived, the police were already inside. Lestrade met them at the front door. "His name is Simon Baker," he told John and Sherlock.

"The man from the crime scene," John said.

Sherlock simply nodded, processing this new information and drawing conclusions from it.

"Yes," Lestrade said, "but he's gone. Visiting his brother from what I gather from the wife. We've tried contacting the brother, but he says Baker is 'out' at the moment."

"The brother is covering for him," Sherlock said.

Lestrade led them through the flat, to the small room the police were currently searching.

"Could I speak to the wife?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade made a non-committal gesture, "of course."

John followed Sherlock through the corridor to the small kitchen where Baker's wife was sitting, looking a bit out of it.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague John Watson," Sherlock introduced them both. He would've said "my friend," if he didn't fear John making a fuzz about it again.

The woman still seemed a bit dazed, but managed to introduce herself. "Lily Baker," she said.

Sherlock sat down on a chair next to Mrs. Baker. "Lily," he addressed her by her first name, knowing that established a rapport, "I would like to ask you some questions."

Lily nodded, but still seemed to be focusing on a random point in space, rather than Sherlock's face.

"Did you and your husband celebrate an anniversary recently?"

Lily seemed surprised. "No," she said, seemingly annoyed to be spoken to at all.

"It's just…" Sherlock nodded at Lily's necklace that did indeed look to be quite expensive.

"It was a… celebration, I suppose," Lily said, absently fingering the necklace.

"What were you celebrating?" Sherlock asked. He was using his most velvety voice and he imagined it must be strange for John to hear Sherlock speaking like this, to such a mind-numbingly vapid creature.

"Something that hadn't happened yet," Lily said, "Si told me he'd tell me the news on vacation."

"He was planning a vacation?"

"Yes, to India, I've wanted to go for years, but we could go."

"And why could you afford to go now?" Sherlock asked, assuming their financial situation had been the main thing that had kept them here.

Lily shrugged. "I just assumed the company was doing well, or…"

"That will be all," Sherlock interrupted Lily. He got back to his feet and left the flat.

Lestrade caught sight of Sherlock and John leaving the building. "Sherlock!" He yelled through an opened window. "What did you find out?"

Sherlock ignored Lestrade and smiled at the knowledge that this would irritate Lestrade to no end. Execute a drugs bust in my apartment, would you? Well, let's see how you'll try to get the information out of me this time.

"What were you keeping from Lestrade?" John asked once they'd gotten a cab.

"Clearly Baker was planning on getting his hands on a lot of money pretty soon. It was nothing related to the company - nothing official at least - or else the police would've already questioned him about it. Then there's how nervous and defensive he was that day at the crime scene."

"So you're certain Baker is the killer?"

"Yes. I think he figured out that Manchester was stealing money from the company and blackmailed him."

"But wouldn't the police have found a money trail like that?" John asked.

"Not if there wasn't one," Sherlock simply replied. "I said he was blackmailing Machester, John, not that he had gotten his money."

John let out an exasperated breath, "what now? Do you have any idea where to find Baker?"

Sherlock bend his head slightly forward. He didn't answer John, because he had no answers. He had no idea where Baker was or how to discover where he was, but he was hardly going to say that.

Sherlock leaned forward to speak to the cabbie, giving him a new destination.

"That's the crime scene, are we going back to the crime scene?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't answer because he considered the answer to be obvious.

Sirius Insurances the sign high above their heads said. Sherlock struggled out of the cab, this time John did help him out. I suppose that means he isn't annoyed anymore, Sherlock thought to himself, most likely I will rectify that soon. Sherlock finally managed to get his crutch under his arm the right way, and started hobbling towards the building.

A young police woman entered just before them. She was still at the elevators by the time Sherlock and John reached them. One of the elevators opened and all three of them entered the it. It was at this moment Sherlock decided to confront the woman. "Hello, Julia," he said. It was the first time he had used her first name and he enjoyed the reaction it got from her.

The Barracuda was standing in front of them, but Sherlock could see she was shocked he had recognised her, because all the muscles in her back tensed. Slowly she turned to face them. Sherlock resisted the urge to see the surprised look on John's face - though he was certain it was priceless.

The Barracuda smiled at them. "Sherlock," she said. "Dr. Watson."

John moved his gaze from Julia to Sherlock and back again. Sherlock realised John was probably thinking about how to restrain the Barracuda. Sherlock hoped John wouldn't try and hoped he would have the opportunity to warn John that the Barracuda probably had poison on her.

"I am assuming you're trying to track Baker's movements as well," Sherlock said.

The Barracuda tilted her head slightly to the right. And for a moment it seemed she wasn't going to answer. "Yes."

"To kill him?" John asked coldly.

The Barracuda looked at John, then moved her entire body to face him. "He has been put on my list. After David Manchester."

"Who hired you?" Sherlock asked. Behind the Barracuda the elevator doors were opening. She stepped back, out of the elevator and John and Sherlock followed her. "Who hired you?" Sherlock persisted.

The Barracuda didn't answer and Sherlock could see a flash of genuine fear cross her face. Moriarty, he immediately thought to himself. He knew no other name that evoked such fear in killers as 'Moriarty' did.

"Answer," John demanded. But the Barracuda remained silent. It was clear from her bearing that she wasn't going to answer. She turned around and headed to Baker's desk. It was obvious she had been here before, because she didn't hesitate once.

She turned around and looked at Sherlock. "Computer?" she asked. Sherlock nodded and sat down behind the desk. It didn't take him very long to guess Baker's password. Frantically typing in line after line, Sherlock was looking through the computer's database.

Meanwhile, Julia was rummaging in a drawer of files. John felt slightly left out. And also slightly disappointed in Sherlock's behaviour. Sherlock couldn't really believe that the Barracuda wasn't to blame?

"Is there a file named Rochester Rails in there?" Sherlock asked Julia. In response, Julia handed him a file. Sherlock looked through it and then folded it under his arm. With a considerable amount of effort he got up from the chair and started for the door. John followed him and so did Julia.

John scowled at Julia as she kept following them all the way outside. Just as he was about to remark on the fact, Sherlock spoke. "She's coming with us John."

"What? Sherlock, you can't let…"

"We might need her help."

"What?"

"Don't ask me to repeat it," Sherlock said.


	5. Chapter 5

Rochester Rails turned out to be a small, now bankrupt, company. They had a significant amount of land to their name, but after the bankruptcy nothing had been done with it. All the old buildings were still there, just run down, with nature growing abundantly inside and over them.

They went into what looked to have once been a storage building. Sherlock took the lead - as he was accustomed to do. John followed and Julia as well, though she kept some distance between her and the two men.

Sherlock noticed almost immediately that this place had not been so abandoned as the state of it would suggest. Obviously it wasn't a functioning business anymore, but someone had been here very recently. And this person had been dragging something heavy along with him.

Without telling the others what he was doing, Sherlock followed the path the murderer - most likely Simon Baker - had left. It led them to the far end of the building. There, just lying in the corner as if he'd been a homeless man who'd fallen asleep never to wake up again, lay the body of David Manchester. Sherlock wasn't surprised.

"That's him, isn't it?" asked John. "David Manchester." John's voice sounded oddly concerned, after all he'd never met the man and even if he had, Sherlock couldn't imagine feeling much pity for this sort of man.

"Obviously," Sherlock said, barely turning his head to face John. Sherlock moved forward, already taking out his magnifying glass. He squatted down next to the body, studying every inch of it. John waited for Sherlock to finish his investigation, as he always did. He had done so right from their first case together; John just instinctually knew Sherlock needed space. Julia copied John's behaviour and even took a step back.

The stab wound was the most noticeable. Well, the wound itself was mostly covered by the torn cloth of Manchester's shirt, but the blood had stained the beige shirt, and marked the injury. The only other injury Sherlock could see were the bruises around Manchester's neck, less gruesome than the blood.

Strangled to death. Sherlock drew the conclusion almost immediately. He felt somewhat bored after that; with this body he already knew all the answers.

"He was stabbed," John said, once again seeming to find a strange necessity to state the obvious, but overlook the important.

"Yes," Sherlock said sternly, "but that wasn't what killed him."

John nodded, "asphyxiated." John stood up. "He was stabbed first, if he had been dead when that had happened he wouldn't have bled like that. And the bruises on the neck suggest the strangulation was one he wouldn't have survived."

Sherlock straightened himself and turned to look at John.

"And you still believe Baker was the murderer?"

Sherlock just gave a single nod.

John looked at him. "You could be wrong," he added carefully.

Sherlock smiled. "Unlikely."

"But why would he strangle him? The stab wound would have been fatal."

"Most likely he needed to silence Manchester immediately. I doubt he killed him here," Sherlock said.

"You do?" John asked.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Look at the floor," Sherlock said.

John looked at him sheepishly.

Letting out a long breath, Sherlock gestured to entire floor of the space. "He dragged him here and the ground around the body is clean - well as clean as any of the floor is here."

John shook his head. "How is that relevant, and why did he have to have dragged him here?"

Sherlock looked at John as if he'd been explaining the same thing all day. Why did they not see it for themselves? In all honestly, Sherlock liked it when he could show his reasoning to people, but at times it was just time consuming to have to explain every detail. "You're not keeping up," Sherlock said accusingly. "Don't you remember the path we followed to get to this point?"

"Which path? What path?" John asked exasperated. O his mind, Sherlock was 'what' they had been following to the body.

Sherlock shook his head in disbelieve. "The one on the ground of course!" He walked away from the body, till he could see the entrance again. "Look at the ground, there's grass growing everywhere. But here, down the middle a lot of it has been crushed," Sherlock gestured at the floor with his arm. "And it has been crushed evenly in one straight go - as if someone was dragging something heavy across the entire length of the building. The path led us here," Sherlock walked back to Manchester's body. "What is the first thing you notice about him? He's dead, obviously. And he has been stabbed. The wound has bled significantly, there are clear lines where it has run down the side of his body and in spite of that there isn't a trace of blood on the floor. Suggesting the body was dumped here some time after death."

John looked slightly annoyed, as he usually did when Sherlock spoke to him like this. He had been busy examining the body to see how Manchester was killed, but he hadn't noticed the lack of blood on the floor. On the one hand it seemed idiotic to John he hadn't, but on the other, he wasn't used to looking at wounded people - or dead bodies - in a crime scene environment. Usually when someone was brought to him, he knew exactly what had happened. John had been with Sherlock for a while now, but it was still his years as an army doctor that dictated his behaviour around the wounded and dead.

"Why would he strangle him as well, I still don't see why Baker would do that. I mean, strangulation takes time, and a lot of willpower. It's not the easiest way to kill a man. Why do it on a dead man?"

It struck Sherlock that there was a good chance John knew that from experience. Sherlock still didn't know exactly how long John had been in the army, or what had happened during that time. Secretly Sherlock found he had a almost morbid fascination with John's time in the army. There were nights when Sherlock would've asked John about it, but he feared it would turn into an emotional recall of events, people usually got emotional about these sort of things.

"It took too long," it was the Barracuda who provided John with an answer. "Maybe he - the murderer - needed it to be quick, maybe he was afraid a witness showed up, or maybe he didn't know the stab wound was fatal and panicked. A stab wound to the gut is fatal, but unlike in the movies, it can take hours before your victim dies. My guess would be that the murderer was new at this, panicked and went for strangulation because he hadn't thought to bring any weapons beside the knife."

"But why not slid his throat?" John asked, his concern gone and sounding incredibly practical about the whole thing.

The Barracuda turned to John. "You think strangling someone takes willpower? Believe me, slitting someone's throat takes more."

"I suppose you have experience with this," John said coldly. Sherlock would normally not expect a remark like this from his friend, but he was aware of John's dislike of the Barracuda.

"I imagine you do too," the Barracuda replied.

John had called the police and Sherlock had insisted they would wait for the police to arrive, to make sure they wouldn't ruin the crime scene. John, Sherlock and the Barracuda were sitting outside at the moment. The sun was shining and the run down land of the Rochester Rails know looked like a beautiful wild garden.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock suddenly addressed the Barracuda. He had his theories about why she was here, but he felt he needed the real reason behind it. After all there was only one truth and he felt the need to know it.

"I was hired to kill both men…"

"Lister and Manchester," Sherlock added.

"Exactly. I needed to know Manchester was dead. I needed to see it, before I could report I had finished the assignment."

"Your employer - the one you won't name - won't he be upset that someone has done half the work for you?" Sherlock asked. He studied the Barracuda carefully, looking for anything that would betray her. He wouldn't ask her again if her employer was Moriarty. In his own mind Sherlock had already decided it must be; he had seen fear on her face, genuine fear and there weren't many people in the world who would frighten someone like her, the Barracuda.

The Barracuda cast her eyes to the floor. "Most likely," she said. Looking up now, she added, "but I'm sure I can apiece him in some way."

"I'm sorry, but doesn't it bother you?" John suddenly said.

"The killing?" the Barracuda asked coldly. "It bothers people a lot less than they're willing to admit. Murder is easier than people want it to be. I know you understand that," she added the last sentence almost as a kind of threat, it seemed to Sherlock. Not a threat against John's life, but rather against his slightly warped morality.

"And clearly it didn't bother Baker," the Barracuda added.

"My motive has never been money," John answered the Barracuda's threat.

"The motive is never money," the Barracuda replied. "People say that, but they don't see what lies beneath. Greed was never about money, it was about wanting more of the things that make you happy. Money has become a symbol of that because you can buy anything these days.

"I can't know for sure what Baker's motive was precisely - assuming it was Baker who murdered Manchester - but I know he must have believed Manchester's death would've improved his life. I don't know how precisely, but that was the motive. That is always the motive. Surely that was your motive? Maybe not just improving your own life, maybe that of other's as well. The hope for a better life can make men do almost anything."

John looked annoyed again, but didn't react in any other way. Sherlock guessed the Barracuda had made sense, and John was reluctant to admit it.

The sound of sirens began to fill the air, and it wasn't long before the first two police cars parked in front of the building. An ambulance soon followed.

"Aren't you worried they'll arrest you?" John asked the Barracuda. "Sherlock and I could give our statements and…"

"There's no point, John," Sherlock said. He understood John's motivations, but he also knew there would be no way for them to get the Barracuda in jail. After all, arresting her would only be the first step and Sherlock was certain her case would never even get to court. An assassin with a reputation like that must have influences all over Europe. And even if she hadn't, her employer must have."

The Barracuda got up, while several people rushed over to their little group. She didn't turn around and Sherlock hadn't expected her to say goodbye to them. The Barracuda paused, but didn't turn around. "It does bother me, the killing," she said, clearly addressing John, "sometimes."

She moved forward and emerged herself in the group that was now heading for the building and Sherlock and John. It took the Barracuda no effort at all to seem like she was one of the police, she fitted in immediately, seamlessly.

"Sherlock, we need to talk," Lestrade said. His tone was tense -which wasn't unusual - but there was a strange concerned undertone to it. "Your brother," he said, laying one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gently turning him away from John and the other people there. "Mycroft has been in business with Sirius Insurance for at least 2 years," Lestrade stared at Sherlock intently. "They have been paying him a lot, and I do mean a lot of money, but we can't seem to find what for."

Sherlock wasn't surprised by that, he was however surprised Lestrade had found out that Mycroft had connections to Sirius Insurance - sloppiness on their side Sherlock assumed.

"We thought maybe you could ask him…"

"My brother is unlikely to tell me what services he provided them," Sherlock interrupted Lestrade. Sherlock moved his shoulder so Lestrade's hand would slip off. "Text me when you have the coroner's report," Sherlock said as he pushed past Lestrade. "Remember to check for fingerprints," he called over his shoulder.

As expected, John knew to follow Sherlock.

Lestrade's revelation had made Sherlock forget about sticking around to guide the barely competent police. Mycroft had been involved in Sirius Insurance somehow. It could mean nothing, after all Mycroft worked for a lot of people, but Sherlock also remembered the fear he'd noticed in the Barracuda when he had asked her for her employer's name. Moriarty would inspire such fear, because he was that powerful. But so was Sherlock's brother.

Sherlock had made up an excuse for John to stay at Baker Street. Sherlock needed to confront his brother, but he had to do it alone. He knew Mycroft wasn't very likely to admit to hiring assassins, even though Sherlock suspected Mycroft had done so in the past. Maybe he would admit to hiring the Barracuda? After all, Sherlock already knew Mycroft had bought the Barracuda's loyalties once before, to save Sherlock and John's lives.

If Mycroft had hired her again, why would he have told her to keep it secret from Sherlock? Mycroft clearly didn't care for Sherlock's opinion about his business, or Mycroft would've retired years ago. And the main thing that made Mycroft keep his business secret from his brother, was to hide exactly how much influence he had over not just this country but god knew how many more.

Sherlock wasn't surprised that Mycroft's assistant let him through immediately, saying she'd been told Sherlock would come by the office.

Mycroft was sitting behind the desk, and greeted Sherlock from there. "Sit down," he said, gesturing to the only other chair in the room. The chair was across the room, putting maximum distance between it and the desk. Sherlock recognised it was a psychological game, but he didn't care, because he wasn't going to sit down.

"You really should eat more," Mycroft said.

"And you really should eat less," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft smiled. "Perhaps."

"Did you commission an assassin to murder two employees of Sirius Insurance?" Sherlock fixed his eyes on his brother.

Mycroft was still smiling in that creepy permanent way he seemed to have developed between the time Sherlock was 11 and 13. "My dealings with them are not to such an extend that I would feel the need to involve myself with their internal politics."

"What is it that you do for them exactly?"

"I provide a simple service."

"What kind of service?"

"Advisory, mainly," Mycroft said. He lifted his chin slightly and he straightened his jacket.

"Mycroft, if you hired the Barracuda to kill Lister and Manchester…"

"Her again?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "You know it was her," he simply stated. He had no doubt that his brother had deduced that much by now.

Mycroft smiled a little. "You ask me to not involve myself with your business, I would ask you to do the same."

"Did you have them killed?" Sherlock demanded, he was leaning on the desk now.

Mycroft paused. "No." He looked at his brother. "Also, I don't believe it's relevant who did."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He knew Mycroft would realise it was important to Sherlock, simply because Sherlock needed to know the answer, to solve the case, so him suggesting it wasn't relevant meant he wanted his brother to drop the case. Undoubtedly to protect Sherlock, but that meant Mycroft knew what the threat was, he knew who had hired the Barracuda."

"Tell me his name," Sherlock said, knowing his brother would already have realised his last statement would've led Sherlock to this conclusion.

"I should've put it more delicately," Mycroft said, recognising his mistake. "I cannot tell you his name."

"Don't pretend this man intimidates you as well," Sherlock said, "you are much too influential to be killed off by some anonymous…"

Mycroft interrupted Sherlock. "It's not my safety I'm thinking off."


	6. Chapter 6

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed when he saw his friend enter Lestrade's office. "Where were you? You suddenly went off on your own!"

"It's unimportant," Sherlock lied, "tell me what you found." John looked at Sherlock and then at Lestrade, Lestrade looked exasperated as always by Sherlock's behaviour, but John could also tell he was going to give in to Sherlock's demand all the same.

"Fingerprints," Lestrade said.

Sherlock smirked; he had expected this. "Baker's?" He asked.

Lestrade shook his head. "We don't know yet, there are no fingerprints on file for him."

Sherlock nodded. "We can compare them later."

"Later?" Lestrade asked.

"After I've found Baker."

"You know where he is?" Lestrade asked eagerly.

"Not yet," Sherlock said and he smiled. He loved a challenge.

John frowned at the way Sherlock had said it and suspected they'd be running around after clues again soon. "There is something else we need to tell you," John said, addressing Lestrade. John looked at Sherlock, hoping for support, but instead Sherlock's face remained expressionless.

"At the crime scene, where we found Manchester's body," John continued a little less certain now, he hesitated because he could see Sherlock's expression change.

"It will have to wait," Sherlock said.

Lestrade's brow furrowed; he knew Sherlock Holmes well enough to know when the man was keeping vital information from him. "If this is something relating to the case, Sherlock, I need to know."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "It isn't important to the case," he simply said. Sherlock turned his back to Lestrade and left the room.

John hesitated, looked back at Lestrade and almost decided to tell Lestrade about Julia himself, but in the end he didn't and just followed Sherlock instead.

Once again wedge in besides Sherlock and his crutch, John felt he was beginning to hate cab rides. "I'm not comfortable with lying to the police," John lied. What he meant was, that he wasn't comfortable with not telling Lestrade about Julia.

"Having the police chase the Barracuda is pointless and will undermine our investigation," Sherlock said. "The police will not manage to find her, but they will put a lot of energy in trying to find her."

John shook his head and tried his best to control his anger. They were heading back to 221b, but he knew as soon as the cab stopped he'd get out and get some air.

John heard a beeping sound he recognised as coming from Sherlock's phone. It was a text and as Sherlock read it, his face fell. "Oh," he said and he sounded oddly disappointed. He put his phone away again and leaned forward to talk to the cabbie. Sherlock gave the cabbie a new address to take them to. John didn't recognise it and despite his anger, he turned to Sherlock.

"Baker," Sherlock simply said.

John waited for further details, but as usual with Sherlock Holmes, none followed. "Do you mean you know where Simon Baker is hiding? Was that Lestrade, has he found him?"

"It is where Simon is hiding, but that wasn't Lestrade," Sherlock said.

"Mycroft?" John asked, after he'd searched his mind to find any one besides Lestrade and himself who could be texting Sherlock.

"The Barracuda," Sherlock said.

John assumed the disappointment in Sherlock's voice came from the challenge having been taken from him; he would've preferred to have figured it out for himself.

Still, John didn't want to be following Julia's direction, mainly because John didn't want to feel like he owed her anything. She had almost killed Sarah, but she'd also saved John and Sherlock's lives. John knew that should mean something to him, but his mind was focused on what Julia had done to Sarah and what that had cost John.

And now Sherlock wanted to accept help from Julia in this investigation? He knew Sherlock would never listen to him. Maybe he shouldn't, after all this text from Julia might lead them to Baker, John should be pleased about that. He shouldn't try to convince Sherlock to go after Julia instead. John bit his tongue and wondered if he would be able to do that for the rest of the cab ride.

When they got out of the cab, Sherlock didn't bother asking the cabbie if he would wait for them. The answer would be no, no one would wait in this neighbourhood. It was twilight, normally Sherlock's favourite time of day. The light was gorgeous and the colours made the sky look magical. But even the beauty of the sky couldn't take away from the threatening atmosphere of these streets.

The buildings were all old, 50 years or so, and run down. Brown brickwork turning black through years of neglect. The streets themselves looked like they had been patched together, a strange quilt of pavement. You could faintly hear music, well not really the music itself, but rather the bass tones that carried much further than the music itself. The noises of industry were present as well, though it was impossible to tell which buildings were still in use and which had been abundant; everything looked just as bleak, just as desolate.

Sherlock secured his crutch under his arm and started hobbling towards Simon Baker's hiding place. Sherlock had expected the Barracuda to be waiting for them, but she was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she had never planned to go there in the first place, after all she wasn't trying to solve this case, she had merely needed to find Manchester's body to complete her assignment.

"We should've gone by the flat first," John said. He didn't look at Sherlock, instead his eyes were scanning the entire street. An effect caused by John's past, Sherlock suspected; John was looking for where potential threats could come from and where they could escape to if they got ambushed. "I really wish I had my gun."

"Unnecessary," Sherlock replied. "Baker is hardly a threat."

"He might be a murderer," John rebutted.

"I could handle it if he tried to use a knife. And so could you."

Sherlock ignored the rest of John's argument. And when they got close to the building the Barracuda had told Sherlock about, Sherlock told John to be quiet.

Sherlock tried to sneak up tot the door, but it looked comical to see this tall, skinny man trying to be elegant while wielding a crutch. Carefully Sherlock tried to put some weight on his damaged left leg, but almost exclaimed from the paint that shot through his leg. Annoyed at his own weakness, he moved forward with the crutch.

When he reached the door, Sherlock paused to check if John was still behind him. John looked worried, even though Sherlock was sure John wasn't worried about his own safety.

Sherlock pushed the door open. Half a dozen paint cans came crashing down on his head. Sherlock put up his arms to protect himself, somewhat hindered by the fact that he still had to hold on to the crutch. Thankfully none of the cans were still full, so the damage they caused was minimum. But then that hadn't been their purpose, Sherlock suspected.

"A rudimentary alarm system, I suspect," Sherlock said to John.

"So he knows we're here," John said.

Neither of them needed to answer that, because within seconds they could hear someone approaching them. Sherlock peered into the dark, trying to make out any figure who might be there, but his eyes were still adjusting and there was almost no light in this place. The only windows of the room were high up and let through almost no light at all. Not that there was much light to let through, outside the night was approaching.

"Sherlock Holmes," a voice from the dark said. "I recognise you from the office."

A blonde man stepped into the little light that fell through the opened door. Simon Baker, Sherlock recognised him as well.

If there had still been any doubt about whether or not Simon Baker was the killer, it quickly disappeared as Baker reached into his jacket pocket and took out a gun.

Unexpected, Sherlock thought to himself.

"You will let me leave, or I will shoot both of you," Baker said. It didn't sound like a threat, instead it sounded more like a plead. Baker clearly wasn't accustomed to this new role he'd taken on.

Sherlock felt John's hand clasp around his arm and could feel John slowly trying to pull Sherlock behind him, but Sherlock didn't let him.

"That was a very clever move of you, keeping the footage of the murder, as back-up," Sherlock said. "But there was a week missing." Sherlock was talking slower than he usually did. Mainly because he was trying to win some time. He had his theories about what footage Baker had taken, but if he got it wrong, and Baker called his bluff, it could cost Sherlock the case.

"Luckily you can retrieve almost anything from a hard drive, if you know what you're doing," Sherlock said. "Your confrontation with David Manchester? It was all caught on camera." Sherlock paused to see if he had gotten it right, and he had, judging by Baker's expression. "You were blackmailing Baker," Sherlock stated. "But he wouldn't pay. He dismissed you."

"I just wanted the money!" Baker suddenly yelled at them. "I didn't want more than I needed. Manchester had earned millions, I just wanted some of it. He could've easily paid! He wouldn't have missed it and it would've meant everything to my family."

"You killed him because you thought he would have you arrested?" John asked. John was desperately missing his gun. As soon as he'd seen Baker reach for a gun, his body had reacted as it always did in combat situations, but he had no weapons. No way of getting himself and Sherlock out of there safely and he hated every second of it.

"It was more than that," Sherlock said to Baker. "You thought Manchester would have you killed."

John reached for his own gun, even though he knew it was still in the flat. He hated feeling helpless. He had to act, do something. John had trouble making Baker out, even now Baker was standing in the light, so John figured that meant Baker wouldn't be able to make him out either. Slowly John moved out of the light, it only took two small steps to emerge himself in darkness.

"He said he would," Baker said to Sherlock.

"I'm sure he would've, for the sums he was making off the theft," Sherlock said.

"So it was self-defence," Baker said eagerly, though it sounded more like a question.

"They won't see it like that," Sherlock said. "You stabbed and then strangled a man. That doesn't sound like self-defence."

"He was going to kill me!"

"Was he holding a gun?" Sherlock asked, nodding to Baker's own gun. "Did he attack you? Manchester's murder was planned. It wasn't self-defence."

Baker clenched his jaw. And raised his gun a little higher. John thought it looked like he was preparing to shoot. Why did Sherlock feel the need to provoke every madman with plans to kill them? Was his pride so great he couldn't kiss some ass if it might save their lives?

"Killing us wouldn't help you," John said, desperately looking for a way to stall, "we're not the only ones working on this case. And… back-ups on the way." John hoped it sounded convincing. He felt ridiculous saying it but he couldn't think of anything else to say. In his mind he was trying to think of a way to get the gun from Baker, without endangering Sherlock.

"You can help me," Baker suddenly said. "You can let me go. Before the other policemen come."

John shook his head. "We can't let you go." And that was true for him. John couldn't let a murderer go free. Even if he did believe Baker really feared for his life. It just didn't justify murder and John couldn't let Baker go. A part of him realised he was being a hypocrite. After all, John had killed a man to protect Sherlock. He would do it again. And John would not expect to go to prison for it.

Baker's eyes grew cold and John could see he was going to shoot. Again John grabbed Sherlock's arm and tried to pull him back, but Sherlock wouldn't budge. John's eyes flashed between baker and Sherlock. Baker was going to kill Sherlock. John didn't know how good a shot Baker was, but he couldn't let Sherlock's life depend on that.

John rushed forward, keeping himself low and ramming his shoulder into Baker's stomach, throwing both of them to the ground. John immediately reached for the hand with the gun, he couldn't reach the gun itself, but he kept holding onto the arm, pushing it away from himself and Sherlock.

Baker struggled underneath John, trying to get his legs under John, so he could kick him off of him. John was hindered by having to use one hand solely to keep the gun under control, and Baker managed to push John off him, just long enough to quickly get to his feet. John was on his back now, staring up at Baker. Baker aimed the gun at John's forehead and at this distance it didn't matter how good a shot Baker was.

Suddenly Sherlock leaped forward, lifted his crutch, swung it at Baker and hit him full in the head. Then Sherlock lost his balance, as he tried to put weight on his damaged left leg, and it buckled under him.

Sherlock fell next to John and John got to his knees, planning to get to his feet. But Baker had already recovered from the shock of being hit in the head, and now swung his gun back to aim at John, warning John to stay down.

John froze, then sat back down. Baker backed-up a bit, and John thought it looked like he was going to make a run for it. John already decided he would go after Baker if he did. Then Baker stopped, still pointing the gun at John. And John realised Baker wasn't going to make a run for it, instead he was making sure John couldn't suddenly go for the gun.

Baker's expression was a mixture of anger and pain. He rubbed the right side of his head, where Sherlock's crutch had hit him.

Baker steadied his right arm with his left hand now. He took a step forward to be more certain of his aim.

"Sherlock!" John hissed under his breath. "Sherlock!" John reached for Sherlock's arm. His plan was to just make a run for it, a chance at not being shot was always better than being shot, but then it dawned on John, Sherlock couldn't run, he could barely stand without his crutch.

"The police will be here very soon, if you shoot us they'll find the bodies and you will have three murders to explain," John said, his eyes fixed on the gun.

"The police?" Baker asked. "You mean you're not police?" John wasn't sure what it was about this fact that made Baker so angry, but he could see it happening in front of his eyes. "And that day at the office? When you found the usb-sticks?" Baker demanded, "Why were you even there if you aren't police? Why are you here!" Baker almost screamed at them, the gun shaking in his grip.

Baker focused his eyes n Sherlock now, and slowly moved the gun to aim right at Sherlock's head. "You found the camera footage on the hard drive, they would never have suspected me is you hadn't given them the footage." Baker tried to steady the gun. "You're not even police, this is just a hobby to you! A game! And I'll end up in prison, because…"

"Because you murdered David Manchester in cold blood," Sherlock said simply. John stared at his friend in disbelieve, was this really the time to anger Baker?

Baker's eyes grew cold and the gun stopped shaking. Baker took another step forward and John knew he was going to shoot, even before he heard the gun shot.

The bang echoed through the empty space and John found he'd shut his eyes, expecting to be shot. But as the sound died away, he realised he felt no pain.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, knowing that if Baker hadn't shot him, he must have hit Sherlock. But Sherlock was still sitting right next to John. He didn't look hurt, instead he was staring at something on the ground before his feet. The body of Simon Baker.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was vaguely aware of John yelling his name. Sherlock! It sounded distant, not because Sherlock was in shock and not because Sherlock's ears were still ringing from the blast of the gunshot, but because Sherlock was concentrating on something else. His eyes had left Baker's body and moved to where Sherlock suspected the shooter had to be.

Sherlock remembered seeing Baker's head jerking to the left as the bullet hit it, and from that he could deduce where the killer had to be standing. The assassin, Sherlock suspected.

"Julia," he said as the seemingly tall woman stepped into the little light that was left. She was wearing high heels and a black jumpsuit. Julia only glanced at the body of Simon Baker, almost as if she didn't really register it.

"You saved Sherlock's life," John said, clearly amazed and apparently forgetting his life had been at stake as well.

"I killed Simon Baker," Julia corrected him. "I had to, he had become part of my assignment."

"Did Mycroft hire you to protect Sherlock again?" John asked.

Julia shook her head.

"Then who did hire you," Sherlock said, almost demanding an answer this time. He leaned forward and reached for his crutch. As soon as John noticed what Sherlock was doing, he got to his feet and helped him.

"The owner of Sirius Insurance. After they discovered the theft."

Sherlock straightened himself and ignored the throbbing he felt in his left leg. He fixed his eyes on Julia. "And the owner's name?" Sherlock asked coolly. If he was thankful for Julia's intervention he didn't show it.

Julia didn't reply. She returned Sherlock's concentrated stare, almost as if willing him to guess the answer.

"Moriarty," Sherlock said.

Julia nodded almost unnoticeably.

"Then why didn't you let Baker shoot me?" Sherlock asked. "I'm pretty sure Moriarty would've preferred me dead."

Julia remained silent. And John knew that kind of silence. He lived with Sherlock, of course he knew that kind of silence. It meant there would be no more answers, no explanations.

"I already called the police," Julia said as she moved toward Sherlock. "I have to go, my assignment is finished. It took me a while, but I got there in the end." Then she turned to John. "Feel free to tell the police I shot Baker," she said and she smiled. It wasn't a triumphant smile, or even a challenging one. It was a genuinely warm smile, and somehow that made John more angry then either of the other smiles would've.

"Tea, dears?" Mrs. Hudson asked, even though she was already carrying a tray with tea and biscuits in her hands.

"Yes, thank you," John said as he took the tray from her.

Mrs. Hudson hesitated before leaving the room, she stared at Sherlock who was trying to put more and more pressure on his injured leg.

"Not to worry Mrs. Hudson, I'll take care of him," John said and he smiled at her.

John sat down in his chair. "Sherlock, you have to stop that, before it causes…"

"Permanent damage?" Sherlock interrupted John, he turned around and smiled. "I know," he said and continued anyway.

John sighed and took a newspaper from the small coffee table in front of him. The front page covered a familiar story. "The fingerprints did match Baker's."

"Of course," Sherlock said. "Still, that wouldn't have been enough to try Baker with, if he hadn't moved the body. The police would've assumed Julia was the killer."

John noted Sherlock had stopped calling her the Barracuda since she'd saved his life. He wondered if that was a sign of affection, or a sign that he'd lost his respect for her as a cold-blooded assassin, as if she wasn't worthy of the name 'The Barracuda' anymore. "Why do you think Julia saved you?"

"She saved us both, John," Sherlock corrected him.

"Fine, why did she save us both?"

"I imagine her employee instructed her to do so. Like last time."

John shook his head, "Moriarty hired her, Moriarty wants us dead."

"Hmm," Sherlock said.

"You think he wants us alive?" John asked surprised.

"Why haven't we been killed yet if he really wanted us dead, John? He must have had opportunities. I thought he might have been in coma, what would explain the lack of attempts on our lives, but if he hired Julia…" Sherlock shook his head. "I don't have enough data yet to speculate." He let himself drop on the couch and he rubbed his leg, his face was slightly twisted in pain and John resisted the urge to play the doctor.

"There's something else that's bothering you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Mycroft is connected to Sirius Insurance, but he doesn't want to tell me how."

"And Sirius Insurance is owned by Moriarty?"

"Via other companies, yes."

"You think Mycroft has connections to Moriarty?"

"As I said, I don't have enough data yet."

"But it would explain why you're still alive, if they're in business together, Moriarty wouldn't want to upset Mycroft by having his brother killed."

Sherlock didn't respond, instead he got up from the couch. "I think I'll have Mrs. Hudson's tea now," Sherlock said as he started to hobble towards the kitchen - without a crutch.

John immediately got to his feet and rushed forward to help Sherlock. John put his arm around Sherlock's waist and told Sherlock to put his arm around his shoulder. Sherlock obeyed and smiled at John's nursing. "Where's your crutch?" John asked while scanning the flat for it. "If you don't use it you'll cause…"

"Permanent damage," Sherlock said, still smiling at John, "yes, I know."


End file.
